


reaching new heights

by nubbins_for_all



Series: Winter isn't goin' nowhere [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Brotherly Love, F/M, Fluff and Humor, I Don't Even Know, Light Smut, Shenanigans, a little cracky, family of adorable idiots, i had to google the word "embrasure"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-07-19 13:24:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19974799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nubbins_for_all/pseuds/nubbins_for_all
Summary: Jaime purses his lips and refuses to look down at his little brother, because if he does then he’s going to see Tyrion wearing that irritable smirk like "well at least you’re pretty Jaime" and then he really is going to punt him.





	reaching new heights

**Author's Note:**

> So...I think I may be writing a series set in this canon-divergent setting where everyone has to fuck around Winterfell for a good long while after the Long Night. Maybe they'll leave Winterfell eventually, maybe I'll do some pre-LG stuff, but I'm just gonna figure it out as I go. Because I'm spiteful and lazy and it's my self-indulgent sandbox and I WILL PLAY IN IT IF I WANT TO. 
> 
> This is a short cracky piece I couldn't get out of my head, and will probably be followed by something Big and Sincere and Full of Love/Porn/Spoken-Word Poetry but in the meantime enjoy my idiotic brain-blurt.
> 
> Also if the directions and floor plans don't make a lot of sense then please don't complain to me because I already used up my caring on trying to make them make a tiny bit of sense.

In Jaime's defense, he knew the way _there._

“Unbelievable,” Tyrion says for about the ninth time, and for about the ninth time Jaime fights the urge to punt him down the hallway.

“If you want to try and find your own way back, go ahead.”

“You’ve been living here for months!”

“Not _here_ , on this side.”

“How do you miss _one whole side of a castle!”_

“I never need to come over to—”

“Of course, your lady’s chambers are in the western tower and they serve dinner in the main hall, so why go anywhere that you can’t eat or fuck?”

“You’re a nasty little hypocrite sometimes, you know that?”

“If this were five years ago, I’d cede the point. But I’ve spent the last six weeks being dragged from freezing holdfast to freezing holdfast on the back of a very irritable dragon, and the three years before that stuck in a barbarian desert, and all of it being bitched at in Dothraki and High Valyrian and the seventeen other languages Missandei knows, so pardon me if I’m a little frustrated with my brother for getting us lost in the one place he should know his bloody way around!”

Jaime purses his lips and refuses to look down at his little brother, because if he does then he’s going to see Tyrion wearing that irritable smirk like _well at least you’re pretty Jaime_ and then he really is going to punt him. Also because he’s trying to figure out if he’s seen this tapestry of two wolves eating a falcon before.

He _does_ know his way, at least he knows how to get into the leather storerooms by way of the northern passages, which would have been fine if Tyrion hadn’t wandered off into the long dark room and forced Jaime to chase after him like a nervous septa. By the time Tyrion was satisfied with Winterfell’s capacity to provide raw leather for insulating Essosi chestplates, they were totally turned around and their torch was sputtering from the thin air.

Somewhat alarmed at the thought of getting stuck down here and ultimately dying not in battle but in a basement, Jaime had grabbed Tyrion and dragged him through the nearest door, which turned out _not_ to be the one they’d come in through. Up a flight of stairs, across a musty wooden walkway, another flight of stairs, and four dim passages later, they were— _somewhere._

Not anywhere Jaime recognized or knew how to get out of, but definitely somewhere.

“We’re going to starve to death in here,” Tyrion moans, and Jaime rolls his eyes so hard it hurts. “They’ll find us in a hundred years, a pair of skeletons. They’ll probably think you were a crippled war veteran who dragged a poor dwarf whore down into the tunnels for a shameful fuck. They’ll write love ballads about us.”

“Why in all the hells would they think that?”

“Because in my dying moments I’m going to shove my stumpy little foot so far up your ass they’ll have to assume you paid for it.”

Despite being really annoyed with both himself and Tyrion at this moment, Jaime has to laugh.

* * *

“Jaimeeeeeeeee…”

“Be quiet.”

“I’m _hungry.”_

“Oh, now who wants to find somewhere to eat and fuck?”

“I’m really more focused on eating, though given your own sensibilities fucking might not be off the—”

“ _Be. Quiet,”_ Jaime growls through clenched teeth. Tyrion’s jokes aren’t funny anymore, not after more than an hour of wandering through one unfamiliar hallway after another. He’s tired, hungry, thirsty, and looking forward to not talking to his brother for the foreseeable future.

He’s also more than a little humiliated at how badly this is going. They’ve found endless storerooms and cupboards and closets stuffed with supplies but absolutely no human beings, which seems impossible given how many people are stuffed inside this place. Winterfell doesn’t _look_ that big from the outside. Fucking Starks and their deceptive fucking castles.

Worst of all, though, he keeps trying to imagine Brienne’s reaction if she ever finds out about this. He remembers the tone of her voice—“you were slower than I expected, _and_ more predictable”—the way she made a universe of disdain apparent in only nine words. That would be nothing compared to this. She’d never let him forget it. If they get married _(WHEN they get married, Jaime’s a fuck-up in a lot of ways but even he’s not stupid enough to let her get away from him again, not after all this)_ she’ll recite it in the vows, “I am his and he is mine, unless he gets lost for hours in the cellars of Winterfell like a total idiot,” oh Gods, he really has to get out of here.

“There’s another one,” Tyrion says in a dull voice. Jaime glances up at one of the high embrasures, a narrow slit carved into the thick stone walls. They started seeing them about twenty minutes ago and got very excited at the prospect of being aboveground, especially since their torch had gone out about twenty- _three_ minutes ago. But though they let slivers of harsh white Northern sunlight inside, they’re set far too high in the walls for either Jaime or Tyrion to look out of and get their bearings. They’ve tried shouting, but no sound comes from the openings and it seems unlikely they can be heard.

If they die wandering around the bowels of Winterfell, Jaime is pretty sure the ghost of Tywin Lannister will spend the rest of eternity beating the shit out of their own sorry ghosts. Which feels appropriate for the Lannister family dynamic, but still, he’d rather avoid it.

They come to the end of their current anonymous passageway and find a flight of stairs. Jaime tries not to get his hopes up, since the last two flights only led to more hallways and storerooms full of wool and linens. He climbs wearily, anticipating Tyrion’s next bout of whining at any minute.

But suddenly they reach the door at the top of the stairs and go through it and Jaime could weep because he knows where they are—or at least he knows where they _could_ be, which is in one of the towers on either the southeastern or southwestern wall. He vaguely recognizes the shape of the little room and the sparse furnishings, a chair and a couple high tables, one other door besides the one they came in through. It might be an office or a maester’s room or something similar, but he’s definitely been here before, though he can't remember exactly when, and if he can figure out which direction they’re facing—

“What, what is it?” Tyrion asks as Jaime suddenly starts spinning around, looking for another embrasure. He spies one about fifteen feet up and gives a triumphant cry.

“There!”

“Where? What are you doing, what is it?” Tyrion repeats with a much higher degree of irritation. Jaime points up at the embrasure.

“I’ve seen this room before, I think—if we’re in the Thin Tower then I can get us down and through the main hall, if we’re in the South Tower then we have to go back a ways but I think I can figure it out.”

“Thank the Gods!” Tyrion cries, raising his hands in the air. “Which one is it?”

“I don’t know, but we can find out.” Jaime strides purposefully over to one of the few pieces of furniture, a sturdy wooden chair, and drags it up against the wall underneath the narrow opening. He glances back at Tyrion, whose face is already falling as he grasps exactly what his brother means to do here.

“No.”

“If you can see the godswood, we’re in the Thin Tower. If you can’t, we’re in the South Tower. That’s all we need!”

“I’m not doing it.”

“Nobody will know except me, come on.”

“I am the Hand of the Dragon Queen, I am a man of dignity, I’m _not doing it_!”

“Fine. Then I suppose we’re going to waste away in here after all. Personally, I think when it comes to consuming each other for sustenance, I’m the one who should get to eat you. You’re deceptively fat these days, and if I didn’t do it one of the dragons would eventually.”

* * *

Tyrion grunts and kicks Jaime in the ear as he makes another attempt to clamber onto the crown of his head. This was a lot easier when they were boys and Jaime had both his hands and Tyrion wanted to peep in at the scullery maids in their bathhouse. Now he’s old and achey and Tyrion actually does seem to be fatter and with only one hand Jaime is having trouble boosting him in a way that doesn’t send Tyrion toppling over in one direction or another.

“Can you see anything?” he says, fighting the urge to wince as Tyrion’s bootheels grind against his temple. Tyrion gives a little hop and Jaime thinks he can literally hear his neck cracking. The chair Jaime is standing on has a bit of a wobble, and he’s braced his feet so hard against the armrests his toes are numb.

“Almost! I think I see something red—it might be a banner—try to get me a little higher!” Jaime tries to stand on tiptoe, but he wobbles and Tyrion shrieks, grabbing on to a moth-eaten green wall-hanging for balance. Jaime grits his teeth and prays to the Gods and the weirwood trees and the Lord of Light that Tyrion doesn’t actually fall and kill both of them in this cramped little room somewhere in the southern half of fucking Winterfell.

“Where’s the sun? It’s almost suppertime now, if the light’s coming from the left—”

“Move a little to the side, maybe I can—”

“Which side!”

“The left side, you idiot, but be care— _FUCK!”_

At least one god must have been listening, because neither of them die when Tyrion does in fact fall on him. They do, however, go crashing to the floor with a deafening burst of shrieks and curses, which are mostly drowned out by the loud _CRUNCH_ as the chair beneath Jaime’s feet breaks in two and also the _RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIP_ as the wall-hanging Tyrion grabbed at again splits down the middle and then a final thundering _SMASH_ when the hanging goes the extra mile and pulls the wrought-iron candle-holder on the ceiling out of its bracings and brings it crashing down less than a foot from where Jaime’s head has just bounced sickeningly off the hard stone floor.

It all happens very quickly.

Jaime stares up at the ceiling, ears ringing, trying to blink away the double vision and already bracing himself against the pain he knows he’s going to feel in the back of his skull. He can hear Tyrion moaning by his left leg, so he’s not dead, and none of his own bones seem to be broken.

Overall, it could have been a lot worse. They’ll survive.

Which is what Jaime thinks right up until one of the other doors in the room bursts open and Brienne charges through, her blond hair shining, Oathkeeper drawn, a brave grimace on her face.

“Who goes th—Jaime?”

* * *

Jaime closes his eyes, even though he can still feel her there, staring down at him, probably trying to make sense of what she’s seeing _(he doesn’t blame her)._ Further down, Tyrion coughs politely.

“Ser Brienne! What an unexpected pleasure. We didn’t know you were in the area.”

“Brienne?” comes a familiar voice, and _oh good, let’s make this even worse_. Delicate footsteps patter into the room. Jaime doesn’t have to open his eyes to know that Lady Sansa is taking in the sight before her with those wolfish grey eyes.

“Lord Tyrion,” she says after a moment, her voice betraying no hint of surprise. “Ser Jaime.”

“My lady,” Tyrion says.

Jaime figures that he can’t actually pretend to be dead, they’ll figure it out at some point, so he opens his eyes and adds, “Lady Sansa, good evening.”

Another moment passes, and with his eyes open now Jaime can appreciate just what Brienne and Sansa walked in on, namely himself and his brother in a tangled pile on the floor, surrounded by the wreckage of pretty much every major piece of furniture in the room. His eyes dart to Brienne, who is looking down at him with a carefully composed expression on her face. Gods, he’s really never going to fucking hear the end of this.

“Are you hurt, my lords?” Sansa asks.

Tyrion gives what was probably meant to be a light-hearted chuckle but sounds somewhat strained, possibly because he’s bruised a rib.

“Only a sprain to our pride, my lady. You see, my good brother and I were on our way back to the main hall to take supper with you, our gracious host, when we happened upon this delightful little solar, and knowing that the brilliant Northern sunset was drawing near, we thought to glance out the window and admire the view.”

“What window?” Brienne asks, frowning. Sansa glances up at the embrasure and Brienne follows her gaze. “Oh. You do know that’s for archers.”

“Well yes, of course _I_ know, but Jaime, bless him, he’s always been a little hazy on the finer points of architecture.”

Tyrion’s voice is still light and conversational, like he’s entertaining Sansa and Brienne at tea. Jaime doesn’t mind because it means _he_ doesn’t have to say anything at all.

“I see,” says Sansa. Jaime realizes now that she’s not actually wearing very much, only a shift under a long dark robe. Her feet are bare, which he knows because they’re the part of her closest to him, and her hair is loose, tumbling over her shoulders.

In the back of his mind, a horrifying little wiggle of a thought appears. He tries to push it away.

“If either of you would like a hand getting to your feet?” Brienne is definitely trying not to smile, which is a bad sign, because usually getting her to smile at all is a painful struggle and when he manages it Jaime feels like he’s won the world’s grandest tourney. But right now watching her lips twitching as she tries not to laugh at him does not feel grand, actually, not at all.

“No no, Ser Brienne, no need.” Jaime feels Tyrion shifting, and a moment later he staggers to his feet, trying not to wince as he smooths down his rumpled doublet. “Jaime? Are you able?”

Jaime grunts and slowly rolls onto his side, his back to Brienne and Sansa as he pushes himself up on his left hand and rises first to his knees, then to his feet. His head is throbbing, as are his right hip and shoulder, and he’s pretty sure he bit his tongue. That’s what he gets for breaking Tyrion’s fall.

As Jaime blinks hard to clear his swimming head, he notices something else about the little room. What he’d glanced at early and thought to be tables are actually much thicker than he’d realized, and have sides carved with images of wolves and half-moons. The half of the ripped wall-hanging that is actually still hanging on the wall now fails to cover a row of hooks, from which dangle a number of fabrics and some ornate chains. And now as he looks back at the door they came through, he notices something he hadn’t before: a long piece of metal hung on the back, burnished and shined to the point that it acts as a blurry mirror.

And that’s when it hits Jaime how he knows this room, and what this room is, and he kind of wishes the fall _had_ killed him.

“Are you all right, Ser Jaime?” asks Brienne, and he whirls around to face her, finding a soupcon of comfort in the fact that she seems to be at least a bit sincere in her concern. The tense _I’m not going to laugh_ face is gone, though now that he knows where he is he’d rather it come back. Then at least he would be less likely to inspire the _I’m going to kill you, Jaime Lannister_ face.

Unless—maybe she doesn’t remember. Or maybe she doesn’t think he does. Either way, if he tries to figure it out right this moment he’ll only be in more trouble.

“Perfectly all right, Ser Brienne,” he replies, blushing when it comes out in a bit of a squeak. He glances at Tyrion, who is clearly just as eager to get out of here as he is, but the only exits are the one they came in from and the one they’d have to go through Brienne and Sansa to reach. “If you could perhaps point us in the direction of the main hall, we’ll be on our way.”

“Do you not know where it is?” Sansa asks sweetly, and Jaime would bristle at her overly-large innocent eyes if he were any position to do so.

“Unfortunately, my lady, it seems my brother and I got a bit…turned around on our trip to the storeroom,” Tyrion says. “It is truly called the Great Keep for a reason, deep and vast as it is, a ringing testament to the industry of your ancestors. A man could wander endlessly in its mighty halls.”

“Indeed, my lord.” Sansa’s lips twitch. “Though I am not sure that my ancestors intended a man to wander into my clothes closet.”

Tyrion blushes so hard Jaime can _hear_ it happening.

“Your…closet, my lady?”

“My closet, my lord,” she says, and glances at Brienne. “The passageway you found is meant to provide escape for the lady of the Keep should she find herself under attack. Apparently, it could also serve as an entryway for hostile invaders. We’ll have to look into that breach in security, Brienne.”

“We will, my lady.”

“If it’s any comfort, Lady Sansa, it took about an hour to find our way here in the first place,” Jaime chimes in, figuring if he’s already screwed he might as well go in for a pound. “Plenty of time for Ser Brienne to get in position somewhere between the dresser and what used to be a very nice chair. Sorry about that, by the way.”

Brienne is glaring at him now, but Sansa just gazes coolly back. She jerks her chin over her shoulder at the door. “Brienne, please escort Lord Tyrion and Ser Jaime through my chambers to the southern passage. I trust you know your way to the main hall from there.”

“I don’t,” Brienne mutters.

Tyrion is already bowing and shuffling towards Sansa and Brienne with as much dignity as a bruised dwarf with a limp can manage.

“Of course, my lady. Many apologies again for the disturbance. Ser Jaime, shall we?”

“We shall, Lord Tyrion,” Jaime says, and avoid Brienne’s eyes as she ushers him past her.

* * *

Jaime is not hiding. He’s not. A knight of the Seven Kingdoms cannot and will not hide.

He can, however, sit way at the back of the armory and pretend to be very absorbed in a book about animal husbandry in the Vale. He can do this up and including the moment that another knight approaches him with slow, deliberate, recognizable steps.

Jaime doesn’t look up, his eyes fixed determinedly on the word “stud” where it’s printed in slanting letters near the bottom of the page. He hears Brienne come to a stop very close by, the buckle in her swordbelt clinking as she adjusts it on her waist.

“You were missed at supper.”

Her voice is casual, which is already a bad sign, because Brienne is never casual, she cares too bloody much about everything. Jaime shrugs, still not looking up. “Wasn’t hungry.”

“Tyrion was starving.”

“Good for Tyrion.”

“He told us you two were down there in the tunnels for a while.”

“He exaggerates.”

“Tormund thought it sounded true enough.”

Jaime groans before he can stop himself, and her smirk is almost audible. He resists the urge to bring up his one rebuttal, the one thing that might give him his edge back in this situation. Only if she pushes him.

“It’s not my fault this castle is built like a rabbit warren.”

“It’s not the castle’s fault you can’t tell left from right.”

“I’ve never fucking been over there before, why is everyone—”

“Because Jaime Lannister and the Hand of the Queen got lost in the cellar like a couple of drunk squires, that’s why.”

“You almost got eaten by a bear.”

“Really, Jaime?”

“Well you did.” He’s not going to look at her, he’s not, if he looks at her she’ll win and she didn’t win when he had two hands damn it and she won’t win now.

“At least I could find my way out of the bear pit.”

“You got out of that pit because of _me!”_

“Was that why you jumped in? Were you lost, ser? Had a faulty map?”

“If that were the case then it was lucky for you.”

“Getting lost is nothing to be ashamed of, Jaime. Getting lost inside the Keep you’ve lived in for months, well, that’s not _nothing_ , but—”

“We got out, didn’t we?!”

“Only by destroying Lady Sansa’s clothes closet when you tried to climb out the arrow slit. Tyrion said you both thought you were going to starve to death before you stumbled in there by chance.”

“A wretched little liar.”

“I hope not. It would be much worse if you ended up there on purpose.”

He has to look up then, and even in the depths of his humiliation he’s thrown by how beautiful she is, her hair pale and warm as fresh butter, her endless legs snug in leather breeches, her stubborn round lovely face, even her long fingers graceful in their stillness. She’s like something out of a ballad about glorious knights of old, and before he knows what he’s doing he’s standing up and letting the book fall to the straw-covered floor and fitting his hand to her waist.

“I didn’t end up there on purpose, _this_ time.”

Gods, it’s never felt so good to see that blush of hers flood her cheeks like that. She tries to pull back but his grip tightens and he pulls her against him, pivoting on his toes so that they swing around and suddenly she’s pressed between him and the armory wall with nowhere to run.

“I don’t know what you’re—”

“It was dark last time, but I remembered. That’s why I tried to see out the window, because I knew where I was.”

“You’re crazy.”

“Sometimes I am,” he says as he leans forward, and his nose bumps her chin. She squirms but then his lips find her earlobe and his tongue darts out to curl around the shell of her ear and she freezes. “And sometimes you are, my lady, when you’ve had a cup or two of wine and you’re in the mood for adventure.”

“This is not about me, you’re the one who can’t find his own arse with a torch.” Her voice only shakes a tiny bit. He bites down and she squeaks. Good.

“I should have asked you directions, for you certainly know the way to my arse. At least when it’s bare on top of that lovely dresser of hers, with the wolf carvings—"

“I don’t—”

“And my lady knows her way to other things too. Her mouth knows, and her hands know, and her cunt knows.”

He breathes on her neck and immediately feels goosebumps answer. She’s clutching at his arms, her hips pushing at his, and there are a hundred thousand reasons that Jaime loves this woman so much it feels like another heart inside him but at least a few of those reasons have to do with the way she can sling barbed words at him and melt hot and soft into his arms within the same breath.

“I was—that was only once, and it was stupid of me, dishonorable—”

“Not at all, Ser Brienne. You honored me a number of times in that closet. I could barely walk the next morning, I had received so much honor.”

He draws his knee up, presses in between her legs and up up up hard grinding against her and she moans, too loud, the armory is usually empty now but someone passing by could hear. He doesn’t care.

“So really,” he purrs into her ear, tongue whispering against the soft skin as his left hand slides up under her tunic and seeks for the tight curve of a breast, “really, you shouldn’t have been so surprised to see me in there, Ser Brienne. Perhaps I was just searching for a knight whom I had met in those lands before. Perhaps I was simply searching for honor.”

They end up fucking right there against the armory wall, at least until Brienne’s enthusiasm and Jaime’s tired legs win out and they fall to the floor and Brienne rides him so hard he thinks she might break something, except he wants it even harder, because it’s so good with her, because it’s Brienne and being fucked by her is worth any amount of humiliation and weeks of teasing from that giant fucking Wildling.

When she comes, she gasps and sobs and then says, “You still got lost and needed me to save you,” and he says, “I fucked you in your lady’s closet, let’s call it even,” and she snorts and nods and then rolls her hips and he comes hard enough to feel a twinge at the back of his head where he cracked it on the floor.

* * *

“Fuck you,” Tyrion says the next morning, and Jaime raises an eyebrow.

“Still bitter?”

“How in the hells do you do something as idiotic and humiliating as we did yesterday and _still_ end up getting your brains fucked out?” Tyrion scowls. “It’s just not right.”

“She felt sorry for me when I told her you fell on my head.”

“Bullshit. I made sure the ginger Wildling knew you broke the chair, you cunt.”

“If you’re so hard up go find a woman! There’s more than enough around here.”

“Surprisingly, brother, I’ve learned the one thing you always understood better than me about sex: it’s less the action and more the person, in the end. Also, I think I twisted my ankle falling on your head, so I can’t fuck anyone.”

“How tragic.”

“Fuck you again. Let’s get some breakfast and then you can carry me back to the storerooms, I need to recheck my figures on the leather.”

One of these days, Jaime was definitely going to punt him.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed. Love you all and your incredible reviews have made me GLOW. They mean a lot, thank you.
> 
> Also sorry not sorry for the pun in the title


End file.
